


Mouse in a Corner

by SoapiePaws



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cold War, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:29:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28978185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoapiePaws/pseuds/SoapiePaws
Summary: It made him think of simpler times, when everything between the two men just seemed to click. Maybe it was their mutual hatred for England, or a desire to strengthen trade, or maybe they really did want to be friends back then. He wished he hadn't lost that connection, because he had been utterly in love with that man, but sometimes love was not meant to be, and the entire fate of the future was out of his control.
Relationships: America/Russia (Hetalia)
Kudos: 16





	Mouse in a Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Just a short one. Enjoy.

His face was bruised and bloody, wet tears forcing its way to spill out his eyes even though his face was pressed tightly into the glass. Cold hands gripped his neck and collar, never once allowing him to move freely, or break away, or even turn around and kiss this fucking man like he wanted to; not that he'd ever tell him that, or himself that, for that matter.  
Honestly, he didn't even remember just how the ever loving hell he got here, one minute he was in an airport flying to China and the next - black. He remembered the crushing sound of tires against gravel, with terrible rope burn against his wrists and thighs, and an awfully hot and stuffy sack bag thrown against his head. How amazingly pathetic, he had thought, that I'm in a situation like this.  
Normally, he'd be able to escape - mere rope and whatever the hell the sack was made out of wasn't going to stop a superpower nation - but for some reason his muscles were slack, his mind grey and foggy like he'd been put on some very strong anaesthetic.  
Eventually, he'd been dragged out of whatever vehicle the commies had been transporting him in, forced into some freezing cold building that wasn't any damn warmer than outside, and suddenly his favourite person on the entire planet was ripping the bag off of his head, smiling one of the creepiest and angriest smiles he had ever seen on the guy.  
Through the smears of blood, tears and saliva on the glass wall he could see red flashing lights, screens and screens of brightly lit up maps and pictures and drawing of locations, people, and fucking nukes. How the fuck did they get those pictures of nukes.  
Honestly he was getting pretty damn tired of trying to comb out Russia's spies amongst his friends. And it was the damn eighties. If the last decade had taught him anything, it's that things were meant to be getting better, not worse.  
Fuck. How the hell was he meant to get out of this one. Not that he could see Russia's face right now, but he could just feel the aura of pure evil reminiscing from behind him. Russia was livid. And he was so. Fucking. Dead.  
He felt the cool, sweet breath run along the back of his neck and making the hairs stand on end. He just wished the mouth could get closer, mark its place on his skin. Watch the skin turn to ice and freeze off, leaving a permanent mark on his flesh, one that screamed in pain but also reminded everyone that he was captivated, and always will be.  
"What is this dorogoy?" Honey sweet words dripped down this collar, through his spine and down into regions that should never have been allowed to get turned on by this, for Christ's sake America, what is wrong with y-  
He grunted as Russia grew impatient and pushed him further into the glass. He didn't even know that was possible, but somehow, Russia made it happen. He tried a shrug of the shoulder to give his lungs the freedom to move as they should again, but the other man's grip was iron and despite America's strength, he had just been taken too much by surprise.  
"Fuck," he spat, Watching blood droplets run down the frame of his glasses. He felt a further pressure in the middle of his back.  
"I thought we agreed on restricted production of anti-ballistic missiles, hmm?" Russia spoke, his face now so close to America's he could feel Russia's lips moving against his ear. It was absolutely exhilarating.   
He couldn't help but let out a very cheerless laugh. "Oh come on. As if you haven't broken the rules yet too."  
He was bluffing, but he was sure of it. He was absolutely sure that somehow, Russia had found a way around the rules they had both agreed on only a few years earlier. America was just being more honest about it.  
"Ahh, Amerika, I believe there is something that you should know about me," Russia breathed, and oh my god, that voice filled his mind with wonderfully provocative and alluring thoughts about how else he wanted to hear the owner of it speak, what he would do when all of this was finally over....  
"I have not broken any agreements as we agreed. Whilst you blatantly break all of your own rules-"  
The grip softened on him. His lungs did not fail to hesitate in breathing in that gorgeous gas called oxygen, filling his body with a warmth and glow once again -   
"I always find my own ways to ignore them."  
It was then Russia let out a soft giggle that made nearly all parts of America's mind scream r u n. But somewhere in the depths there, screamed one crazy, very mutated cell that thought Russia's insanity made him all the more sexy.  
It made him think of simpler times, when everything between the two men just seemed to click. Maybe it was their mutual hatred for England, or a desire to strengthen trade, or maybe they really did want to be friends back then. He wished he hadn't lost that connection, because he had been utterly in love with that man, but sometimes love was not meant to be, and the entire fate of the future was out of his control.  
What he was in control of, however, was the predicament he was currently in. Even in his weakened state America still knew he was a force to be reckoned with, and although he knew Russia would never in his life admit it, he was not as strong as he used to be, and was losing power by the day.  
So with all the speed and strength he could muster, America pushed his hands hard against the glass in between him and freedom, feeling the spider web-like cracks forming beneath the palms of his hands. He felt Russia grunt in surprise - the other man's grip loosening for a split moment - before America pushed again.   
The glass shattered and the two men fell to the floor: America a shaking and panting mess; the other shocked but quick to move away and regain his posture. Despite Russia's cat-like reflexes, America felt nothing touch his flesh except for the razor sharp fragments of glass scattering the ground and his clothes, puncturing his arms and neck and hands and face and-  
He was eerily aware that he felt cold. Probably from the blood loss, he thought, but the other man's arms were wrapped around its owner, not him, and providing Russia the freezing cold heat America himself had only had moments before he ruined it. His skin felt feverish without it.  
Violet eyes stared into blue. For a split moment America could only see the shock, the fear, the longing, the desire, and the bitter loneliness. For a split moment, Russia had forgotten to cover everything up in his eyes, numb the feelings in his heart, a reminder that he wasn't truly made of ice but made of pure silver, addictive and delicious and everything that America had ever dreamed of, shining through his soft and shiny tufts silver hair that bounced the sunlight off as if it were snow in the day.  
For a split second, in Russia's eyes, America saw his own reflection.  
And then it was gone. The light died. The violet dulled. His skin turned grey and his hair turned beige. His expression was one carved out of stone.   
"Go."  
It came as a whisper, but America knew it was meant for him, as it always was when everything inevitably all fell apart like this, like it did every fucking time.  
"When I next see you, I won't be so generous."  
So America stood, arms and legs shaking, trampling against the glass in his boots as if he had just survived a bullet wound. God, he just couldn't help himself.  
And as he turned back around, walked over to Russia, bent over and gave him the most loving and tender kiss, he could think of nothing except for how fucking stupid he was.  
So he walked out of that building in Russia, inside the Soviet Union, Scott free. A lucky bastard, England would call him.  
Lucky lucky lucky.  
To walk home with his freedom intact, and his mind at ease.  
…  
Freedom.  
Was it?

**Author's Note:**

> Translations:
> 
> Dorogoy: Darling/dear


End file.
